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一张做工精致的红木书桌正静静地诉说着母爱的质朴与伟大。那么在每一个隐秘的小隔间里,不仅珍藏着母亲无言的爱,而且还积淀着我们深深的思念。
I am sit ting at my mother’s desk, a mahogany1 sec re tary with a writing leaf that folds down to reveal2 rows of cubbyholes3 and tiny draw ers---- even a slid ing se cret compartment. I’ve loved it since I was just tall enough to see above the leaf as Mother sat do ing letters. Stand ing by her chair, star ing at the ink bottle, pens, and smooth white paper, I de cid edthat the act of writ ing must be the most de light ful thing in the world.
Years later, during her final illness, Moth er re served various items for my sis ter and brother. “But the desk,”she’d repeat, “is for Elizabeth.”I sensed Moth er’s com mu ni cat ing through this gift. It was the com mu ni ca tion I’d craved for 50 years.
My mother was brought up in the Vic to ri an be lief that emotions were private. Nice people said only nice thing. I never saw her angry and never saw her cry. I knew she loved me; she ex pressed it in action. But as a teen ag er I yearned4 for heart-to-heart talks be tween mother and daughter.
They never happened. And gradually a gulf opened between us. I was “Too emotional” She lived “under the surface” She was willing to ac cept the relationship on these terms. I was not.
As years passed and I raised my own family, I loved the equilibrium5. I loved her and thanked her for our harmonious6 home. For give me, I wrote, for having been critical. In careful words, I asked her to let me know in any way she chose that she did for give me.
I mailed the letter and waited eagerly for her reply. None came.
Eagerness turned to disappointment, then resignation7 and, finally, peace. I couldn’t be sure that the letter had even got to my mother. I only knew that I had written it, I could stop trying to make her into some one she was not. For the last 15 years of her life we en joyed a relationship on her terms---- light, affectionate and cheerful.
Now the gift of her desk told me, as she’d nev er been able to, that she was pleased that writing was my chosen work.
My sister stored the desk until we could pick it up. Then it stayed in our attic8 for near ly a year while we converted9a bed room into a study.
When at last I brought the desk down, it was dusty from months of storage. Lovingly, I polished the draw ers and cubbyholes. Pulling out the se cret compartment, I found pa pers inside. A photograph of my father; family wedding announcements; and a one-page letter, folded and re fold ed many times.
“Send me a reply,”my let ter askd, “in any way you choose.”Mother, you always chose the act that speaks loud er than words.
坐在母亲的书桌旁,这是一个带有可折叠的活动桌面的红木写字台。桌面折叠起来后可以看到几排分类小书橱和几个微型抽屉—— 甚至还有一个可拉伸的隐秘小隔间。自从我的个头长到可以看见妈妈在桌子上写东西时,我就喜欢上了它。当我站在妈妈的椅子旁,看着墨水瓶、钢笔还有光滑的白纸,我就认定“写作”这个工作一定是世界上最令人高兴的事。
几年后,在妈妈临终前,她把她的大量物品都留给了我的兄弟姐妹。“那个书桌,”她重复道,“是给伊丽莎白的。”这件礼物让我感觉到和母亲的交流。这是一种我渴求了50年的交流。
我母亲在维多利亚式的信仰下长大,她认为情感是私密的。高贵的人只说高贵的话。我从没见过她愤怒,从没见过她大喊大叫。我知道她爱我,她用行动来表达。但是作为一个十几岁的孩子,我渴望的是母女间那种心对心的、开诚布公的交谈。
这样的谈话从来没有过,渐渐地我们之间产生了代沟。我太感情用事了,而妈妈却从不表露感情。她乐于以此为前提保持我们的关系,可我不愿意。
多年以后,我组建了自己的家庭,我喜欢和妈妈的这种不远不近的关系。我爱她,感谢她为我们这个和谐的家庭所做的一切。我写信给她,请她原谅,原谅 我本应受到批评的那些事。我措辞谨慎地请她选择任何一种方式让我知道,她确实已经原谅了我。
我把信寄给了她,便开始急切地等待着她的回复,但是一封回信也没有。
渴望变成了失望,然后是放弃,最后一切恢复平静。我甚至不能确定妈妈是否收到了信。我只知道我写过信,而且我不应该再努力让她变成她本来就不是的那种人。在她生命的最后15年里,我们按照她的条件享受我们的关系——淡淡的但却很亲密,也很快乐。
现在,这个被视为礼物的书桌告诉了我她未曾当面对我说的话:她很高兴我选择写作作为我的职业。
在我把书桌搬走前,我妹妹保管着它。之后,书桌就在我们的阁楼上放了将近一年,直到我们把一间卧室改成书房。
当我好不容易把书桌搬下来时,它由于几个月的搁置落满了灰尘。我小心翼翼地擦亮抽屉和小书橱。
坐在母亲的书桌旁,这是一个带有可折叠的活动桌面的红木写字台。桌面折叠起来后可以看到几排分类小书橱和几个微型抽屉—— 甚至还有一个可拉伸的隐秘小隔间。自从我的个头长到可以看见妈妈在桌子上写东西时,我就喜欢上了它。当我站在妈妈的椅子旁,看着墨水瓶、钢笔还有光滑的白纸,我就认定“写作”这个工作一定是世界上最令人高兴的事。
几年后,在妈妈临终前,她把她的大量物品都留给了我的兄弟姐妹。“那个书桌,”她重复道,“是给伊丽莎白的。”这件礼物让我感觉到和母亲的交流。这是一种我渴求了50年的交流。
我母亲在维多利亚式的信仰下长大,她认为情感是私密的。高贵的人只说高贵的话。我从没见过她愤怒,从没见过她大喊大叫。我知道她爱我,她用行动来表达。但是作为一个十几岁的孩子,我渴望的是母女间那种心对心的、开诚布公的交谈。
这样的谈话从来没有过,渐渐地我们之间产生了代沟。我太感情用事了,而妈妈却从不表露感情。她乐于以此为前提保持我们的关系,可我不愿意。
多年以后,我组建了自己的家庭,我喜欢和妈妈的这种不远不近的关系。我爱她,感谢她为我们这个和谐的家庭所做的一切。我写信给她,请她原谅,原谅 我本应受到批评的那些事。我措辞谨慎地请她选择任何一种方式让我知道,她确实已经原谅了我。
我把信寄给了她,便开始急切地等待着她的回复,但是一封回信也没有。
渴望变成了失望,然后是放弃,最后一切恢复平静。我甚至不能确定妈妈是否收到了信。我只知道我写过信,而且我不应该再努力让她变成她本来就不是的那种人。在她生命的最后15年里,我们按照她的条件享受我们的关系——淡淡的但却很亲密,也很快乐。
现在,这个被视为礼物的书桌告诉了我她未曾当面对我说的话:她很高兴我选择写作作为我的职业。
在我把书桌搬走前,我妹妹保管着它。之后,书桌就在我们的阁楼上放了将近一年,直到我们把一间卧室改成书房。
当我好不容易把书桌搬下来时,它由于几个月的搁置落满了灰尘。我小心翼翼地擦亮抽屉和小书橱。然后拉开那个隐秘的小隔间,在里面发现了几份文件。一张我父亲的照片,家庭成员的结婚公告,还有一封翻看了好多次的、只有一页纸的信。
“给我答复,”我在信里请求,“你可以选择任何方式。”妈妈,你总是选择行动,而这远比语言更有说服力。
I am sit ting at my mother’s desk, a mahogany1 sec re tary with a writing leaf that folds down to reveal2 rows of cubbyholes3 and tiny draw ers---- even a slid ing se cret compartment. I’ve loved it since I was just tall enough to see above the leaf as Mother sat do ing letters. Stand ing by her chair, star ing at the ink bottle, pens, and smooth white paper, I de cid edthat the act of writ ing must be the most de light ful thing in the world.
Years later, during her final illness, Moth er re served various items for my sis ter and brother. “But the desk,”she’d repeat, “is for Elizabeth.”I sensed Moth er’s com mu ni cat ing through this gift. It was the com mu ni ca tion I’d craved for 50 years.
My mother was brought up in the Vic to ri an be lief that emotions were private. Nice people said only nice thing. I never saw her angry and never saw her cry. I knew she loved me; she ex pressed it in action. But as a teen ag er I yearned4 for heart-to-heart talks be tween mother and daughter.
They never happened. And gradually a gulf opened between us. I was “Too emotional” She lived “under the surface” She was willing to ac cept the relationship on these terms. I was not.
As years passed and I raised my own family, I loved the equilibrium5. I loved her and thanked her for our harmonious6 home. For give me, I wrote, for having been critical. In careful words, I asked her to let me know in any way she chose that she did for give me.
I mailed the letter and waited eagerly for her reply. None came.
Eagerness turned to disappointment, then resignation7 and, finally, peace. I couldn’t be sure that the letter had even got to my mother. I only knew that I had written it, I could stop trying to make her into some one she was not. For the last 15 years of her life we en joyed a relationship on her terms---- light, affectionate and cheerful.
Now the gift of her desk told me, as she’d nev er been able to, that she was pleased that writing was my chosen work.
My sister stored the desk until we could pick it up. Then it stayed in our attic8 for near ly a year while we converted9a bed room into a study.
When at last I brought the desk down, it was dusty from months of storage. Lovingly, I polished the draw ers and cubbyholes. Pulling out the se cret compartment, I found pa pers inside. A photograph of my father; family wedding announcements; and a one-page letter, folded and re fold ed many times.
“Send me a reply,”my let ter askd, “in any way you choose.”Mother, you always chose the act that speaks loud er than words.
坐在母亲的书桌旁,这是一个带有可折叠的活动桌面的红木写字台。桌面折叠起来后可以看到几排分类小书橱和几个微型抽屉—— 甚至还有一个可拉伸的隐秘小隔间。自从我的个头长到可以看见妈妈在桌子上写东西时,我就喜欢上了它。当我站在妈妈的椅子旁,看着墨水瓶、钢笔还有光滑的白纸,我就认定“写作”这个工作一定是世界上最令人高兴的事。
几年后,在妈妈临终前,她把她的大量物品都留给了我的兄弟姐妹。“那个书桌,”她重复道,“是给伊丽莎白的。”这件礼物让我感觉到和母亲的交流。这是一种我渴求了50年的交流。
我母亲在维多利亚式的信仰下长大,她认为情感是私密的。高贵的人只说高贵的话。我从没见过她愤怒,从没见过她大喊大叫。我知道她爱我,她用行动来表达。但是作为一个十几岁的孩子,我渴望的是母女间那种心对心的、开诚布公的交谈。
这样的谈话从来没有过,渐渐地我们之间产生了代沟。我太感情用事了,而妈妈却从不表露感情。她乐于以此为前提保持我们的关系,可我不愿意。
多年以后,我组建了自己的家庭,我喜欢和妈妈的这种不远不近的关系。我爱她,感谢她为我们这个和谐的家庭所做的一切。我写信给她,请她原谅,原谅 我本应受到批评的那些事。我措辞谨慎地请她选择任何一种方式让我知道,她确实已经原谅了我。
我把信寄给了她,便开始急切地等待着她的回复,但是一封回信也没有。
渴望变成了失望,然后是放弃,最后一切恢复平静。我甚至不能确定妈妈是否收到了信。我只知道我写过信,而且我不应该再努力让她变成她本来就不是的那种人。在她生命的最后15年里,我们按照她的条件享受我们的关系——淡淡的但却很亲密,也很快乐。
现在,这个被视为礼物的书桌告诉了我她未曾当面对我说的话:她很高兴我选择写作作为我的职业。
在我把书桌搬走前,我妹妹保管着它。之后,书桌就在我们的阁楼上放了将近一年,直到我们把一间卧室改成书房。
当我好不容易把书桌搬下来时,它由于几个月的搁置落满了灰尘。我小心翼翼地擦亮抽屉和小书橱。
坐在母亲的书桌旁,这是一个带有可折叠的活动桌面的红木写字台。桌面折叠起来后可以看到几排分类小书橱和几个微型抽屉—— 甚至还有一个可拉伸的隐秘小隔间。自从我的个头长到可以看见妈妈在桌子上写东西时,我就喜欢上了它。当我站在妈妈的椅子旁,看着墨水瓶、钢笔还有光滑的白纸,我就认定“写作”这个工作一定是世界上最令人高兴的事。
几年后,在妈妈临终前,她把她的大量物品都留给了我的兄弟姐妹。“那个书桌,”她重复道,“是给伊丽莎白的。”这件礼物让我感觉到和母亲的交流。这是一种我渴求了50年的交流。
我母亲在维多利亚式的信仰下长大,她认为情感是私密的。高贵的人只说高贵的话。我从没见过她愤怒,从没见过她大喊大叫。我知道她爱我,她用行动来表达。但是作为一个十几岁的孩子,我渴望的是母女间那种心对心的、开诚布公的交谈。
这样的谈话从来没有过,渐渐地我们之间产生了代沟。我太感情用事了,而妈妈却从不表露感情。她乐于以此为前提保持我们的关系,可我不愿意。
多年以后,我组建了自己的家庭,我喜欢和妈妈的这种不远不近的关系。我爱她,感谢她为我们这个和谐的家庭所做的一切。我写信给她,请她原谅,原谅 我本应受到批评的那些事。我措辞谨慎地请她选择任何一种方式让我知道,她确实已经原谅了我。
我把信寄给了她,便开始急切地等待着她的回复,但是一封回信也没有。
渴望变成了失望,然后是放弃,最后一切恢复平静。我甚至不能确定妈妈是否收到了信。我只知道我写过信,而且我不应该再努力让她变成她本来就不是的那种人。在她生命的最后15年里,我们按照她的条件享受我们的关系——淡淡的但却很亲密,也很快乐。
现在,这个被视为礼物的书桌告诉了我她未曾当面对我说的话:她很高兴我选择写作作为我的职业。
在我把书桌搬走前,我妹妹保管着它。之后,书桌就在我们的阁楼上放了将近一年,直到我们把一间卧室改成书房。
当我好不容易把书桌搬下来时,它由于几个月的搁置落满了灰尘。我小心翼翼地擦亮抽屉和小书橱。然后拉开那个隐秘的小隔间,在里面发现了几份文件。一张我父亲的照片,家庭成员的结婚公告,还有一封翻看了好多次的、只有一页纸的信。
“给我答复,”我在信里请求,“你可以选择任何方式。”妈妈,你总是选择行动,而这远比语言更有说服力。